


On Love and Possession

by darkavenue



Series: Demonic Devices [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Demonic Possession, Exorcisms, Gen, Holy Water, Hurt/Comfort, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-02
Updated: 2019-07-02
Packaged: 2020-06-02 13:02:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19441987
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkavenue/pseuds/darkavenue
Summary: Anathema believes she is possessed by a demon. She comes to Aziraphale and Crowley for an exorcism.“You know someone possessed, book girl?”“Maybe. I’m trying to figure that out. That’s why I came to you two.”There’s an awkward pause, during which Crowley and Aziraphale exchange glances across the table.“Well, angel, you go ahead and tell her what the signs are.”“I think you should, it’s your area of expertise.”“Me? I’ve never possessed anyone. It’s your area now.”“That wasonetime.”“Oh my god.” Anathema puts her hands on the table. “Please tell me at least one of you knows what possession looks like.”





	On Love and Possession

A pounding at the door startles Aziraphale from the aching comfort of familiar passages within pages he revisits time and time again.

“We’re closed!” he calls out over his shoulder.

The bookshop’s front door does not stop rattling. “Aziraphale! I need to come in!”

Now there’s banging on the glass. Aziraphale reluctantly sets down the book he was buried in and puts on a practiced, stern expression that is used specifically for telling potential customers to go away. That expression evaporates the moment he sees Anathema Device’s face in the window. Aziraphale scrambles to undo the locks and opens the door.

“Miss Device! Did you come here all the way from Tadfield?”

She steps inside, perfectly collected, as if she hadn’t been yelling on the steps moments earlier. “Hello. Shadwell told me about your store, I hope that’s alright. And, yes, I did.”

“That’s a long trip. You must be hungry. Would you like a late dinner?”

“I—Sure? I just—”

With a broad smile, Aziraphale darts off to get his coat.

Anathema follows. “Does everything seem normal to you?”

“You mean, after the attempted apocalypse?” He says, pulling it over his shoulders.

“No. I mean here. Right this second. Everything’s fine?”

He blinks. “Yes?”

She frowns.

“Do you know something about the shop that I don’t?” Aziraphale asks.

“No, I don’t. I might just be crazy.” Her hands come up to her face. She slips her fingers beneath the bottom rim of her glasses to rub her eyes. “Is there any way I could talk to Crowley?”

“Of course, I’ll tell him to meet us there. Is something wrong?”

“Yes.”

A thirty second phone call before leaving the book shop (“Hello! I am going to that place with the uni pasta with—Yes, I’m going now, with—Okay—Hello? Oh, he hung up.”) is all it takes to get Crowley to meet them for dinner.

The demon’s eyebrows rise from behind his glasses at the sight of a third person at their usual table. “‘Ey, it’s book girl. What’re you still doing on this side of the pond?”

“Staying in Jasmine Cottage for a while longer.” In case he forgot, she reminds him, “I’m Anathema.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m Anathony.”

“That sounds like Anatomy,” Aziraphale muses.

“Listen,” Anathema interjects before they get sidetracked, “I need to know how you can tell if someone is possessed.”

“You know someone possessed, book girl?”

“Maybe. I’m trying to figure that out. That’s why I came to you two.”

There’s an awkward pause, during which Crowley and Aziraphale exchange glances across the table.

“Well, angel, you go ahead and tell her the signs.”

“I think you should, it’s your area of expertise.”

“Me? I’ve never possessed anyone. It’s your area now.”

“That was _one_ time.”

“Oh my god.” Anathema puts her hands on the table. “Please tell me at least one of you knows what possession looks like.”

Another long silence.

“I,” Crowley starts. The words come out in the slow and staccato rhythm of someone reaching for bullshit. “Have. _Heard_. Of it. Happening. Yep.”

Distraught, she turns to Aziraphale.

“I’ve heard,” he starts, eyes flicking between her and Crowley a whole lot, “that there is speaking in tongues involved.”

“Yes,” Crowley immediately agrees, “Tongues.”

“And, er… They get mean? Just, so rude, right?”

“Oh yeah,” he agrees again, “especially when it’s you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes narrow. “Hey!”

Anathema lays her arms across the table and drops her head into them while the two go on a tangent.

Eventually, Crowley interrupts their bickering to murmur, “She alright?”

“I’m picking up that you two _somehow_ don’t know anymore about this than I do,” Anathema says, voice muffled.

Aziraphale suggests, “What if you tell us your friend’s symptoms and we give you our opinions on it?”

She lifts her head and straightens her glasses. “It’s not a friend. It’s me.”

“I have to say, you don’t seem possessed at all. What do you think, Crowley?”

“Iunno. Might be someone good at hiding. Someone subtle.”

“You can’t just detect other demons?” Anathema asks, almost pleading. “Neither of you?”

“Sometimes. But if you’re in a human body, you read as human. If you’re in an angelic or demonic body, you—well, you get the picture,” Aziraphale explains.

“What makes you think you got a squatter in there, anyway?”

“A few things. For one, I’ve been sleepwalking, which I never did before.”

“Lots of people sleepwalk,” Crowley dismisses.

“I’m getting these crazy intrusive thoughts. Things I would never think. And these urges to do things I’d never do.”

“Like what, dear?”

She looks at Aziraphale and chews her lip for a moment. Anathema then turns to Crowley and beckons him to come closer. He leans across the table. She meets him halfway and whispers in his ear.

“What the fuck, book girl?” They break apart and Crowley sits back in his seat. “You better hope it’s a demon or you’ll need therapy for _that_. That’s messed up. ”

“What did she say?” Aziraphale begs to know.

“Oh, you couldn’t handle it, angel.”

“That’s not the worst thing,” Anathema mumbles.

Crowley sputters, shocked and intrigued. “It’s _not_?”

“The worst thing is… I’ve been a lot rougher than usual with Newt.” She casts her eyes down, letting her hair fall in front of her face. “He’s not the best at standing up for himself, so he wouldn’t defend himself when I lashed out—Verbally. Over stupid, small things. Last night, I lashed out physically.”

Aziraphale brings a hand up to his lips. “Is he alright?”

“No.” Anathema’s gaze does not leave her lap. “I mean, physically, yes. He was rightfully upset, and scared. And I left. I came here.”

There’s a pause in the conversation as the server arrives with two plates of pasta and one espresso. All three of them smile politely, tight-lipped and stiff.

Once the waiter leaves, Anathema adds, “I can’t go back. I can’t be near _anyone_ I know, until I figure out what the hell is going on with me.”

“It must be something.” Aziraphale puts his hand over hers. “I believe that you would never do such a thing.”

“You don’t even know her,” Crowley mutters.

Both Anathema and Aziraphale give him wounded looks.

He changes tune. “I mean, yeah, it’s probably a demon. We could give it a try.”

“Try what?” Aziraphale asks him.

“An exorcism, obviously, what else d’you do with a possession?”

After trying uni pasta for the first time, Anathema finds herself in the back seat of Crowley’s bentley. Being there again dredges up unpleasant feelings she thought she’d gotten over. Phantom aches of resentment and guilt in equal turns.

In the rear view mirror, her brown eyes meet Aziraphale’s. “Thanks for helping me.”

“How could we not?”

She can see the driver’s face in the mirror as well. “I’d say we can’t make any guarantees. Don’t get her hopes up.”

Crowley brings both of them up to his flat. The front door opens into the sleek, open plan kitchen and lounge. An adjacent hallway contains a gallery of plants, as well as doors leading to the office, bed, and bath.

“Wow.” Anathema, feeling profoundly uncomfortable, stops at the center of the living room area. “You live like this?”

He turns both palms up at her. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It looks like a serial killer’s secondary location.”

“No, it doesn’t.” He scoffs.

“If your stereo had any speakers, I’d think you’re about to play _Hip to Be Square_ and chop us to pieces.”

“That’s— pretty funny, actually—but _more importantly_ , dead wrong.”

The corner of Anathema’s lip curls up. “It wouldn’t be funny if it was wrong.”

“I have no idea what she’s referencing,” Aziraphale confesses. “But I don’t think this looks entirely normal, either.”

 _“_ What, like it’s _more_ normal for someone to live in a bookshop?”

“I like your plants,” Anathema offers.

Aziraphale agrees. “I like them, too.”

“They’re alright.”

Aziraphale smooths out his coat with fidgety hands. “Would you give us just a moment, Miss Device? I’d like to confer with Crowley.”

Aziraphale leads Crowley to the office and gives Anathema a nervous smile before shutting the door. Out of habit, Crowley plops right into his throne.

Aziraphale paces on the other side of the desk. “What are we going to do now?”

“You exorcise the demon.”

“How? What am I supposed to do? _Pray?”_

Crowley winces. “Yeah, hadn’t thought of that. What do they do in the movies? Oh, try saying ‘ _The power of Christ compels you._ ’”

“I don’t think Christ is on good terms with me anymore, I don’t think we should consider movies as reliable sources, and I _definitely_ don’t think that sequence of words does anything against demons.”

“What makes you so _definite_ about that one?”

“You _just_ said them.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“Help me out here, Crowley.”

“Holy water?”

Aziraphale snaps his fingers. “I can do that!”

“That’s also in the movies,” Crowley stubbornly adds, rising from his chair. “I want you to know that you are one thousand percent responsible for cleaning up any spills.”

They exit the office with a vaguely plan-shaped idea of what to do, and Aziraphale stops at the center of the now-vacant living room. “Where’s Anathema?”

Something clinks and crinkles in an adjacent room.

“In the kitchen, apparently,” Crowley answers.

At the doorway to his kitchen, they find the refrigerator doors wide open and Anathema looking into it. Her back, framed by bright white light, faces them. She’s slightly hunched, eating directly from the fridge.

“Oh no, you’re still hungry after dinner?” Aziraphale frowns, wondering why she turned down his offer to split the dessert.

Anathema turns around at the sound of his voice. Her chin, nose, and even her glasses are smeared red. In her trembling hands, she holds what looks like a raw rib eye steak with enormous chunks torn out. It drips a fatty, bloody mess over Anathema’s boots and Crowley’s pristine floor.

Aziraphale and Crowley stay frozen in the doorway, speechless.

Anathema finishes chewing, swallows thickly, and says quietly, “Help me.”

This spurs them into action. Crowley takes the raw meat from her hands—she releases it to him as if it’s a relief—and carries it to the trash. It takes him a moment to remember where exactly the trash bin is located. At the same time, Aziraphale takes her by both wrists and guides her to the sink. She lets him.

He turns the faucet on, then takes a frantic glance over the blank counter. “Crowley, where is the soap?”

“What soap?”

“The hand soap? Dish soap? Anything?”

Crowley shuts the trash compartment with his foot and holds his bloody hands up to Aziraphale. “Just turn her around.”

Aziraphale gently steers her to face Crowley. He closes his red-stained palms into fists and when they open, they are clean. So are Anathema’s. She blinks, surprised at the abruptly clear vision through her glasses. The back of her hand comes up to dab at her mouth… It comes back clean.

“I feel disgusting.”

“You’re not at all,” Aziraphale instantly insists.

Crowley makes a soft “Eh,” sound, which Aziraphale raises his voice to drown out.

“Raw meat is a delicacy in so many places. We should go to France for a steak tartare when this is over.”

Anathema lifts her eyebrows. “Yeah, okay.”

“We know what we’re doing,” Aziraphale assures her.

“Okay?” she says, more unsure now than before he’d felt the need to say it.

“All we need is a pitcher of water. Crowley, where would I find a pitcher?”

“I dunno, just start opening cabinets.”

Aziraphale snaps and every cabinet in the kitchen swings open at once. It makes Anathema jump.

“There’s one.” The angel spots what he needs within seconds.

While he busies himself filling the heavy glass pitcher with water, Crowley stays where he is. “You alright?”

“Yeah.” Anathema holds her elbows. “That’s just like a scene from a horror film. All the cabinets opening by themselves.”

“You think the cabinets have been the only thing?”

Her face falls and Crowley realizes that only made her feel self-conscious again.

He quickly adds, “This is fun, though. I love a good horror flick.”

She gives him a weak smile and turns away. He can’t tell if that made her feel any better or worse.

The bathroom is as bare and instagram-ready as the rest of the flat. The shower is a clear glass rectangle with a floor of polished black pebbles. Anathema gets inside it, at Crowley’s insistence.

“Should I take my shoes off?”

“Doesn’t really matter. Look, feel free to start this without me, I need to put the protective gear on.”

“The what,” Aziraphale and Anathema ask, but Crowley has already vanished from the doorway.

Aziraphale carefully holds a heavy decanter that sloshes with what amounts to about two wine bottles full of holy water.

“I apologize if this hurts.”

Anathema takes a breath. “I’m ready. Just go.”

He dips his fingers into the water and flicks it at her face. Anathema flinches slightly.

“Did it sting?”

“Nope.” She wipes away some droplets that landed uncomfortably close to her eyes. “Just an involuntary reflex when stuff flies at my face.”

“Oh? Excellent. All according to plan,” Aziraphale lies. Badly. “I’ll just—Keep doing that then.”

By the time Crowley peaks one eye through a narrow crack in the door, decked in his black rubber gloves and apron, Anathema’s already thoroughly sprinkled with holy water.

“Figures a human would be tolerant to holy water,” he calls through the crack. “Makes sense for it to be part of the appeal.”

“Should you use more than just a spritz?” Anathema asks, impatient.

“Just throw the whole thing,” Crowley suggests.

“Well, alright.”

Aziraphale swings to dump the whole pitcher of holy water on Anathema. The slippery thing flies right out of his nervous, noodle fingers and clobbers her directly in the face. The decanter shattersinto glittering pieces across the shower stall. It’s a good thing Anathema never took her shoes off.

Both of Aziraphale’s hands clap over his mouth. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry!”

Crowley slowly, quietly, shuts the bathroom door.

Anathema grips the gray marble wall, clutching her cheek. “Ow! Yeah, that one stings.”

He can’t stop apologizing. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to let go, let’s get you away from the glass…”

He offers a hand, which Anathema begrudgingly takes, and helps her hobble out of the shower. She keeps her hand pressed against the side of her face that the pitcher crashed into.

“Here, let me see it,” Aziraphale offers. “I can heal.”

“Oh, I know,” Anathema reminds him.

She drops her hand. Aziraphale steps closer, inspects her cheek. No blood or scratches there, at least. He brushes the hair out of her face to get a better look. Anathema hisses when his fingers graze a horribly sore spot along her brow bone.

“Oh, that’s going to form a miserable bruise. I’ll take care of it.”

“I’ve had bruises before. You don’t need to waste magic on it.”

“It isn’t a waste if it spares you pain. Let me fix my mistake.”

The pad of his thumb sweeps over the sore spot and, this time, it doesn’t hurt at all. Anathema pokes a few places along her eyebrow to make sure.

The look in Aziraphale’s eyes is not unlike a puppy that knows it did something wrong. “I hope you aren’t mad at me.”

“Honestly? A little. On the one hand, I’m glad I don’t have to pay for your stupid mistakes. On the other hand, it’s a little unsatisfying that you get to magic your guilt away.”

“Please, Anathema. It was an accident. And you only had a bruise.”

“I’m not holding a grudge against the bruise. It’s the broken bones.” She leans her hands against the counter behind her. “You need to be more careful with us. You heal my bones, make sure I get home, and think no harm done. You have no idea, do you?”

Now, Aziraphale’s inner puppy looks like it has been kicked. “What do you mean?”

“I’m sure it seems small to you, compared to all you’ve seen, but people get PTSD from accidents like that. I was so shaken that night that I wound up forgetting the most important thing my family owns, the entire reason I was out so late, the thing that gave me purpose. It just completely slipped my mind. That was what really hurt the most about that night.” She stops for a dramatic pause before concluding, “It doesn’t take a miracle to return a lost book, you know.”

Anathema waits for Aziraphale to say he didn’t know its importance, or that he tried to return it but events got in the way, or he hadn’t known it was in Crowley’s car. She doesn’t need an apology either, all she knows is that it feels good to release that weight she's been unconsciously holding. Aziraphale looks properly guilty, which helps her feel better as well… but also, a bit ashamed. The shame mostly prompted by the fact that his face is so expressive, it stirs a feeling not unlike seeing someone naked. An uncomfortable feeling that she is seeing things that should be private, without his awareness.

“Angels are not above coveting,” he admits softly. “I had a moment of weakness with the book. I wanted it so much that I didn’t think—How careless of me—Of course it was of massive importance to you. I am so, so sorry.”

His gaze is so intensely earnest that Anathema needs to look away. “It’s over now. Just wanted things off my chest, and... We’ll call it even if you get this demon out.”

Aziraphale nods, eager to accept the terms. “Of course I will. If an angel can’t, then who can?”

It’s meant as a lighthearted reassurance, but as soon as the words leave Aziraphale’s lips, their faces change to matching expressions of disturbed concern.

“I’ll need some time to think, if that’s alright. Perhaps you should stay the night and we will have a fresh plan in the morning.”

Anathema squeezes some holy water out of her wet hair. “Sure. The last bus to anywhere near Tadfield left a while ago, anyway.”

Aziraphale opens the bathroom door and jumps when he finds Crowley standing _right_ there at the threshold, holding a towel and a pile of clothes in his arms.

He passes them to Aziraphale and looks at Anathema over his shoulder. “Don’t you drip anywhere beyond this bathroom.”

Aziraphale leaves her to change. Crowley doesn’t seem surprised that she’ll need to stay the night. While he gets out of the protective gear, Aziraphale goes to the seemingly never-touched bedroom and spends several minutes making sure it’s fit for a human. (“Is this a normal amount of pillows for a bed? Because it seems excessive.” “Your lamps aren’t even plugged in— _She_ can’t turn them on if they aren’t—They don’t have _bulbs?”)_

Anathema emerges from the bathroom barefoot and wearing Crowley’s pajamas. Or at least, the clothes for sleeping in that existed in a drawer somewhere. He has never worn them. They exchange awkward ‘goodnight’s before she shuts the door. The moment the door closes, Aziraphale slumps back against the wall and slides to the floor.

“Why do demons do this to humans? I mean, the suffering, the claiming souls, I know about that. But possession is… it’s _personal.”_

“You’re wrong there, angel. It’s the opposite of personal,” Crowley leans one shoulder against the opposite wall. “The demon’s real target isn’t the possessed. It’s everyone who has to witness the possession. Everyone who has to hear about it. Everyone who has to ask why God lets this happen.”

“The human body is only a means to an end?”

Crowley nods. “You’re gonna need a lot more holy water.”

“What difference would it make? And _why_ do you keep raw meat in your fridge?”

“Because it’s wagyu and I wasn’t expecting possessed guests.”

“You cook?”

“No, but… I might. Someday. Or I might have someone over who wants to.”

“I like wagyu.”

Crowley hums, as if it’s a coincidence. “I’ve got a whole set of steak knives that’ve never been touched.”

“And what spices?”

“What?”

“You know, seasonings?”

“Er…”

“Honestly, Crowley? A kitchen without spices is truly demonic.”

They talk about this and that, the same way they always have. It helps calm Aziraphale down. After a bit, Crowley saunters off and comes back with two bottles of wine in one hand and two glasses in the other. They sit on opposite sides of the hallway floor, backs against the wall. Aziraphale drinks with both knees bent halfway to his chest. Crowley drinks with his legs splayed out in such a way that his foot lands in the aura of Aziraphale’s foot. Not touching, but close enough to be palpably _there._ Aziraphale would only have to shift his shoe an inch or two to nudge Crowley’s.

A couple hours of quiet conversation pass, and Aziraphale does not budge that foot. It gets to the point where Crowley becomes convinced you have to make a conscious effort _not_ to move your foot even the slightest bit for so long. Their bottles are empty, so he gets up for another round of wine. As he approaches the end of the hall, the door to his bedroom creaks behind him.

He turns around. Anathema stands at the door. Her eyes are closed.

“Do you want us to get you anything?” Aziraphale asks, also rising to his feet.

She walks forward, ignoring him. She even bumps her shoulder against him as she passes and tips over an empty wine bottle with her foot, but doesn’t react to either. She ambles like a zombie down the hall.

“She’s sleepwalking.” Crowley catches her by both shoulders before she passes him.

She tries to keep walking forward, but he pushes her backwards. They kick the wine bottle rolling down the hall on their way back to the bedroom. He manages to forcefully navigate her back to the edge of the bed.

“Okay, er, what do we do?” Crowley asks, staring at Anathema’s closed eyes, but the question is directed at Aziraphale somewhere behind him.

“I don’t know, lay her down?”

Crowley interprets these vague instructions to mean: Push her until she falls back on the bed. At the sensation of falling, Anathema’s eyes snap open. She hits the bed with a soft cry and bounces back up like she’s been touched by a livewire.

Panicked brown eyes snap from Crowley to Aziraphale and back to Crowley, startled but still hazy from sleep. “Wh—What—What are you doing here?”

“You weren’t lying about the sleepwalking,” Crowley replies.

“Oh.” She nods and rubs her eyes. “Please don’t let me do that. Don’t let me eat raw meat again.”

“We’ll be right outside the door,” Aziraphale promises.

They keep their promise. She tries to sleepwalk out of the bedroom less than a half hour later. They repeat the process of dragging her back to bed, which wakes her with a startle again. She does it a third time. And a fourth. On the fifth time, when she jerks awake at the feeling of them trying to leverage her back into lying down, she sobs in frustration. It’s a dry sob, spurred by anger instead of tears. Everything’s twice as upsetting when you’re sleep deprived.

“I can’t—What’s wrong with me—I don’t want to keep doing this,” she groans and blinks puffed eyes up at them. “Can we just do the second try now? Please?”

“Oh, I can’t stand to see you this way. Of course.”

“Did we make a plan b?” Crowley murmurs.

“Yes,” Aziraphale bullshits, “The plan is... more holy water.”

“That’s it?” he frowns.

“It was _your_ suggestion. Did you have a better one?”

“Fuck you guys,” Anthema mumbles, too slurred with sleep for them to determine if she means it as a general, ‘ _Fuck,_ you guys,’ or as a very specific, ‘Fuck _you,_ guys.’”

Aziraphale turns Crowley’s shower into a clawfoot tub. Gold fixtures, cozy basin, a lovely vintage stopper with the chain attached. It’s beautiful, and it clashes completely with the rest of the modern minimalist bathroom. Brings up fun memories for Aziraphale, at least. He fills it with warm water and Anathema climbs in, pajamas and all.

Crowley dumps new towels on the counter through a crack in the door and announces, “Best of luck. I’ll be in the office for this one.”

“Your moral support is invaluable,” Aziraphale answers as the door clicks shut.

It gets a smirk out of Anathema, even as sleepy and disgruntled as she is. With a secondhand smile on his lips, Aziraphale blesses the water, not really expecting much.

Anathema screams. Her hands snatch the rim of the tub with a grip so tight that her knuckles go sallow. Alarmed and frightened at the prospect of going through with this, Aziraphale puts his hand over hers, muttering kind and encouraging words.

She screams again, face clenched in a grimace of unimaginable pain. Her entire body twitches, fighting to jump out, but she fights the impulse down.

The echoing screams are loud enough that they’ve got Crowley cringing in his office chair, grating like nails across chalkboard. It sounds like torture.

He opens the bathroom door just a crack, too slim to put his face through, only his mouth, and calls out, “Aziraphale? How’s it going in there?”

“ER—IT’S PROGRESS,” Aziraphale yells over Anathema’s shrieking and thrashing.

Crowley hears water slapping tile as it splashes out of the tub and gets an involuntary shudder. “Okay, yeah, wish I could help! One thing though—I’m gonna need you to keep it down!”

“HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO—You’re alright, Anathema, so brave, you’re doing amazing—HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO KEEP IT DOWN?”

“You put your hand over her mouth, angel!”

“CROWLEY!”

“Fine, don’t! When the cops come, I’ll just play dumb about the lady screaming in my bathroom! What do I care!” Crowley walks a couple of steps away, then comes back and he adds, “You know, if we get interrupted, you’ll just have to start this all over again!”

A moment of frustrated consideration, and then the screams are muffled.

“You’re doing amazing, Aziraphale,” Crowley calls into the bathroom, “So brave.”

No answer, just more stifled shrieks and water splashing… and the phone is ringing. The landlord, probably. He runs to the office, combing through his imagination for a good excuse that’ll explain the noise complaint away.

“Yeah, it’s Crowley,” he says once he’s got the phone to his ear.

“Hi! This is Newt. I got your number from Shadwell.”

“Who?”

“We met at the army base. I was with Anathema.”

“Mmmnope, not ringing a—”

“The book girl? You threw a book at us.”

“I don’t really—Nope.”

“You sure? She’s sort of missing, so it would be cool if you can… like… do anything to help find her? I’m not sure what you did that day, but it seemed like something.”

“I’ve never done anything. In my life.”

“Right. Sorry to bother you then. Thanks for—What was _that?”_

Aziraphale’s hand must have slipped because a full-volume scream fills the apartment again. But it doesn’t sound like Anathema. It’s guttural, rumbling, and thoroughly inhuman.

Crowley hangs up on Newt.

In the bathtub, the holy water turns inky black. Anathema’s eyes roll back so far that Aziraphale can only see the whites. Her veins are startlingly visible, turning a color dark as charcoal beneath her skin. The sounds coming out of her gaping mouth are impossible. Her screams sound like the roar of thunder and the screech of an oncoming train hitting the breaks and the crash of waves against rock. They sound like dozens of screams at once.

He’s panicked and struggles to hold her inside the tub as she pushes back with inhuman strength. Doing so makes Aziraphale unconditionally miserable, but what keeps him trudging on through the motions is the thought that Anathema would have to go through this all a second time if he mucks it up now. He doesn’t notice, at first, that it’s not Anathema herself pushing against his hold. The bathtub is rising, levitating off the bathroom tile. Aziraphale has no choice but to let go of her. Grey smoke spills over the rim. This certainly _looks_ like an exorcism of some kind. Should he say something?

“You get out of her right this instant!” He demands with as much authority he can muster, despite having utterly no control of the situation. “Do leave her alone!”

Above him, almost touching the ceiling, the demon’s shrieks turn into cackles. In a moment of desperation, Aziraphale prays for her. He recites the first passage that surfaces in his reluctant memory—Psalm 130, De Profundis. The latin rolls off his tongue through pure muscle memory.

Then, the tub shudders and falls. Aziraphale realizes it’s hurtling at him and scrambles backwards on all fours. It hits the marble at his feet with a deafening clatter. Two of its clawed feet snap right off and the tub tips onto its side, spilling out the entire contents: gallons of black holy water and Anathema’s limp body. Angry red burns blotch her skin.

“Aziraphale?” Crowley’s panicked voice shouts through the door.

“I’m fine!”

“I’m playing ‘the floor is holy water’ out here, Aziraphale!”

“Don’t lose!”

Aziraphale’s first priority is not the holy water flooding out of the bathroom. He crawls to Anathema and gently shakes her. No response, although the black varicose veins all over her body are fading back to normal before his very eyes. He puts a hand on her ribs. They aren’t moving. Aziraphale places a hand on her sternum and miracles the water out of her lungs. Anathema jolts awake with a hacking cough, spitting water out over the already-wet tile. Some of it gets on Aziraphale, but he’s already soaked as well, so it doesn’t make a difference. With consciousness comes an awareness of her singed skin, and she whimpers miserably.

“Easy, easy there. You’ll be okay.”

Aziraphale undoes the burns in an instant, no problem. But what Anathema told him earlier plagues him. He really should have worried about the emotional cost of the wounds he heals. He can’t believe he dropped her off at home and called it a day. Some angel he is.

“Breathe, my dear. How are you feeling?” he asks softly, scooping an arm beneath her to help Anathema sit up.

She’s heavy in his arms, exhausted by the simple act of holding her own head up. “Like my head split open.”

“Come on, let’s get you dry and back in bed for some proper sleep.”

Out in the hallway, Crowley’s perched up on an accent table. Each time it wobbles beneath his bodyweight, he clings to the wall like his life depends on it. He’d been waiting out there when the commotion hit and a massive amount of holy water surged through the crack at the bottom of the door. He unceremoniously shoved a plant potted in a 17th century vase off the table in his haste to leap away from the floor.

Aziraphale and Anathema are murmuring behind the door. He doesn’t want to interrupt—after all, he has no idea what they’ve gone through in there—but he wouldn’t like to melt all Wicked Witch of the West-style either on the off-chance the table’s leg gives out.

“Aziraphale, would you _kindly_ do something about the water out here?”

“Oh, right!” In a snap, the water vanishes.

Aziraphale opens the door right on time to catch him clambering down from the perch. Bits of priceless china crunch beneath Crowley’s boots. He’ll re-pot the plant later.

“Sorry about that,” Anathema says, standing behind Aziraphale and looking miraculously dry.

“It wasn’t your fault.” Aziraphale’s voice is gentle, although his eyes on Crowley have a stern look that implies ‘ _Don’t you give her any shit, now.’_

Of course, Aziraphale would phrase the thought more politely out loud. But his eyes have no filter and that’s exactly what they say.

Aziraphale is visibly shaken and Anathema’s weak on her feet, clutching the wall as she makes her way out of the bathroom. Crowley thinks about reaching out to him, but Anathema’s the one that looks like she needs a hand. He offers her an arm to lean on and they make their way back to bed. She collapses into it diagonally, taking up both sides of the bed, and doesn’t bother straightening out. He remembers she barely slept all night.

With her eyes closed, Anathema feels the covers being tugged out from underneath her. She opens them, unsurprised to see that it’s Crowley pulling them away. The surprise comes when he neatly brings the covers over her shoulders.

“Are you… tucking me in?”

“I’ll have you know, I’ve got eleven years experience as a nanny.”

“You? Seriously?” Her eyes wander away from his face and roam somewhere around his head. “Actually, I can sort of see it. You have a kind aura.”

“Is it now?”

He winds up taking a seat at the edge of the mattress and telling her a bit of the story. A few parts make her chuckle, before she dozes off.

Aziraphale walks in on Crowley gazing at her face with a frown on his lips. His sunglasses are folded neatly in the spot beside him. Aziraphale moves them, because he wants that spot. He situates himself very slowly, so as not to wake Anathema with the movement. Crowley’s bright gold eyes turn to him.

“Nice going with the holy stuff,” he whispers, so low that his voice could be confused for the rustle of sheets.

It’s not taken as well as he intended. Aziraphale forces a smile, but he can’t hold it up for longer than a couple of seconds. Doesn’t look like he’s too comfortable with holiness these days.

“I don’t understand how the exorcism even happened, if there was no faith behind it.”

“Are you alright?”

“No. You know I don’t like being the mean one.”

“I’d have done it for you if I could.”

They should be used to speaking in whispers. They’ve always had to conceal their contact. But there’s something soft and gauzy in sitting so close here. A texture like silk in their hushed tones.

“What were you doing in the hall, anyway?”

He leans closer to hear Crowley’s response. Close enough that their shoulders bump, their knees brush.

“That crash sounded like—like the ceiling fell in. You think I’m not gonna check?”

“You were supposed to be in another room, in case of exactly the thing that wound up happening.”

“Shhhshshsh,” Crowley says, under the pretense that Aziraphale’s whispers are getting too loud.

But really, he just doesn’t want to admit why he was standing outside the door.

Aziraphale must’ve got the hint, because he swerves the topic over to: “What do you think she’ll want for breakfast?”

Anathema stirs awake at promptly eight hours later. Crowley sits at the foot of the bed, his back facing her. He looks over his shoulder at the sound of her sitting up.

“Morning,” she rasps, voice more than a little shot from all the screaming.

“Afternoon. Aziraphale’s out getting brunch.”

“Did I…?”

“We kept an eye on you all night. You didn’t even toss and turn. Not one attempt to sleepwalk, at all.”

She makes a sound that happens when someone sleepy tries to sigh in relief and cry out in joy at the same time. “Is it over?”

“Iunno. You feeling.... Pure?”

Anathema crinkles her freckled nose at the word. “Never.”

He smiles. “Good answer.”

Anathema gets out of bed, changes back into her own clothes, and tames her bed hair. She picks up the towels from yesterday off the floor and asks Crowley where to put them.

“In the trash chute down the hall,” he answers.

Her eyebrows knit together in confusion. “Why are you so skittish about holy water, anyway? I thought you were immune.”

“Funny story, actually… I—Hold on, how’d you know that?”

“Didn’t you tell me?” Anathema shrugs, carrying the stack of towels toward the front door. “Or maybe Aziraphale did.”

Crowley snaps his fingers. The lock on the front door spins shut with a click, ominous as a gun loading.

She turns around, eyes wide. “Crowley?”

“When did he tell you that?”

“He—It was yesterday. When I got in the bath. It uh, reminded him? I don’t know.”

“We’ll see when he gets here.”

She hoists the towels in her arms. “Are you going to let me toss these out?”

“No. You aren’t going anywhere yet.”

“You can’t keep me locked in here.” Anathema shoots him an incredulous glare. “You’re being a psycho. This is what psychos do.”

“What was it you said about my aura? That it’s a psychotic one?”

Anathema, drops the towels, spins around, and undoes the deadbolt. Crowley snaps a finger and the lock snaps back into place. She curses under breath. She tries again, this time reaching for the handle faster. But not fast enough. Crowley snaps and the lock shuts before she opens the door.

They both jump at the sound of a voice on the other side of the door.

“I think there’s something funny with the lock?” says Aziraphale.

“No, that’s just Crowley,” Anathema answers.

She unlocks the door. This time, Crowley lets her.

Aziraphale comes in and obliviously sets a brown takeout bag on the island counter. “I brought pancakes and—Why are the towels on the floor here?”

“Did you tell Anathema about what happened in hell?”

Before Aziraphale opens his mouth to answer the question, there’s about three seconds of silence. In that silence, Crowley hears the susurrus of a knife sliding over a hard surface. His eyes flit to the magnetic strip that holds his (never used) set of steak knives over the (also never used) state of the art grill. Correction: _Should be_ holding.

The set of knives flies off the magnet board, pointed straight at Aziraphale’s back. Anathema makes a break for the door. She gives Crowley two choices in that split second: Lock the door or redirect the knives. She’s been around them long enough to think that, by presenting that ultimatum, she’s leaving Crowley with no choice.

Crowley creates a third choice. He stops time. The knives freeze, floating in midair. Anathema freezes mid-run.

“Why did you do that?” Aziraphale asked, unaffected by the freeze but still perplexed. “You could just ask her why she’s running.”

“Watch your back.”

Aziraphale looks behind him and gasps. His eyes are wide and his jaw hangs open when he whips back around to Crowley.

“She’s still possessed? But—” He sidesteps the knives so that he’s standing out of their line of fire. “But she didn’t sleepwalk all night. How did the demon return?”

“Don’t think they ever left, angel.” Crowley walks past Anathema. He locks the front door again, by hand this time. “They tried to fake us out.”

“Last night, you said possessions aren’t personal. Are you sure about that now?”

Crowley walks around to the hovering knives, takes a couple by the handle, and returns them to their place on the magnet strip. “You think the demon chose her because she could get close to you and me?”

Aziraphale lends a hand with the remaining knives. “Do you believe it’s coincidentally Anathema, of all people?”

“I dunno, witches mess with all kinds of forces.”

Aziraphale frowns and looks at Anathema, paused mid-motion. “You aren’t going to let her leave?”

“Are you gonna let the demon get away and leave Anathema to the wolves?”

He sighs through his nostrils, lips shut in a thin, straight line. “I suppose not… She’s counting on us to get it out.”

Crowley circles back to Anathema. “You realize she needs to be restrained, right?”

“I’ve got it.”

Luckily for Aziraphale, Anathema’s locked in mid-step with one boot on the ground. It’s easy to procure a stick of chalk and strategically draw the holy circle around her. He sets five candles around it and Crowley lights them.

“It’s ready,” Aziraphale says.

Crowley unpauses time. Anathema seemingly hits an invisible wall. The faint blue glow of the holy circle lights her up from below.

She looks down at the pattern holding her in, then pivots to face them. “Why are you doing this? Let me go!”

Crowley leans in to whisper to Aziraphale, “This Anathema? Or’s it the demon?”

“We could be talking to either one at any moment. In my experience, both should be able to hear us.”

“You still had your voice, though. We could tell when it was you. This one’s a little chameleon.”

“Is the demon still there?” Anathema asks, voice shaking in a way that tugs at Crowley’s pity.

“You told me something you can’t have known, Anathema. Where else could you have heard that, if not in hell?”

She crumples to the floor of the circle, devastated. “This is all my fault.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” Aziraphale coos. “You did nothing to invite this.”

Anathema shakes her head. “Agnes would have warned me. She would’ve protected me, would’ve told me what to do, but I— I stopped following her instructions.”

“I read the book front to back. The prophecies ended on the day of Armageddon.”

“Technically, the final one was for the day after that,” Crowley adds.

“You don’t understand. There was a second volume of prophecies.”

Aziraphale’s eyes light up at the news, but his expression flips to panic when he considers the past tense. “Was?”

Anathema props her elbows on her legs and drops her face into her hands. “I burnt them all.”

“You _what?”_

“It really is my fault. I could have seen it coming, if I didn’t choose not to.”

“Yeah, alright.” Crowley crosses his arms. “You can spend all day dragging yourself in circles around all the choices you wouldn’t have made if you knew their consequence. It’s a waste of time. You’ve got a problem now and you need to do something about it right _now_ , not spend all your time thinking of things you could’ve done in the past.”

Anathema looks up from her hands. “Okay. What do I do now?”

She and Crowley look to Aziraphale for the answer. They get a deer-in-headlights look from him in return.

“We—I—er—Hold on, I need a minute to collect my thoughts.” Aziraphale excuses himself and takes a step into the hallway.

He steps into a graveyard. Aziraphale covers his mouth and turns away. He meets Crowley’s eye as he does.

At the look on his face, Crowley immediately strides over. “What is it?”

Aziraphale blocks the way into the hall at first, hoping to prepare him somewhat. “I’m sorry, it’s... It’s the plants, Crowley.”

For a few seconds, Crowley only stares at his face. Aziraphale steps aside, allowing him to see that the lush wall of plants has become brown, dry, and withered. Every single one.

“Are you kidding me?” Crowley’s gaze on them seems unfocused, as he runs both hands through his hair before dropping them limp at his side. “This, this is just spiteful.”

A bit awkwardly, Aziraphale rubs one hand over his back.

“Is there anything, one _single_ thing, that I can do to help you rip that demon out?”

“Oh, Crowley, I don’t even know one single thing that _I_ can do. If holy water doesn’t do it, what will? The seven princes of hell itself couldn’t figure out what to do with a demon that could withstand it.”

“How do priests do it?”

“With the power of god,” Aziraphale answers, as if on autopilot. Once that reflex is out of his system, he clarifies, “I mean, they believe that’s what it is. The reality is that god has bigger fish to fry and isn’t even there.”

“So what’s the trick to it?”

“It’s not a trick, it’s a test of faith. You pass the test by believing hard enough.”

“How much faith you got left?”

“You know I don’t…”

“None at all? Can’t you scrounge any up from some dark corner? Can I pitch in what I’ve got left? Maybe, together, that adds up to half and half.”

Aziraphale cocks his head to the side and stares at Crowley as if he’s never seen him before. As if the puzzle box of this situation just fell apart in Aziraphale’s hands and Crowley was inside.

Crowley does not see any of the light bulbs currently flashing in Aziraphale’s mind. “What?”

“Crowley. You do it.”

“Do what now?”

“The exorcism.”

“What? How?”

“I don’t know. I trust you’ll think of something.”

_“How?”_

He rubs Crowley’s back one more time before leaving him, walking back to Anathema in the holy circle.

 _“Aziraphale,”_ Crowley hisses after him.

“Hm?” Aziraphale flicks an arch glance over his shoulder.

Crowley lowers his voice, now that they are within Anathema’s earshot. “I don’t have any power that can help us here.”

“I’m asking you to try. You know I never ask for anything.”

“Ha,” Crowley deadpans.

He reaches into an inner pocket of his jacket for his shades. He puts them on to let Anathema’s demon know it’s time to talk business. Here’s what Crowley doesn’t know: It finally clicked for Aziraphale that the secret to faith isn’t religion. Like religion, the idea of love is incredibly easy to poke holes in if you’re in doubt, or if you're looking to tear it down. You can also decide to have unflinching faith in it.

Unaware of Aziraphale’s unflinching faith in him, Crowley approaches the edge of the circle and drops to sit on his haunches. “Let’s talk. What should I call you?”

“Um, Anathema?”

“Not you.”

Anathema is quiet. The girl doesn’t know and the demon doesn’t want to talk.

“C’mon,” Crowley insists, “No need to be coy. I think we can work something out.” Still, no response comes, so he goes on. “I’m pretty good at making deals, setting up arrangements. Especially the kind I’m really not supposed to.”

“Mhm!” Aziraphale chimes in for a second, then returns to listening intently by the window sill.

Crowley points over his shoulder. “See. Tell us what you want and we’ll hear it out.”

Anathema’s eyes go from Crowley, to Aziraphale, to the pattern of the holy circle containing her, back to Crowley.

“Maybe we’ve met,” he keeps prompting, “Do I know you?”

Anathema shakes her head. “ _Don’t think so. Perhaps in passing.”_

“You were at my trial, weren’t you?”

_“Some of us.”_

“Some?” His eyebrows furrow behind the shades. “How many of you are there?”

_“Six.”_

Crowley’s jaw falls slack for a second. “ _Six_ demons? Inside Anathema? Right now, all at once?”

Anathema’s eyes well with tears at the revelation, even as the demons calmly nod her head.

“How is that possible?”

_“If you want us to tell you our tricks, we want to know yours. How did you survive?”_

“A little outside help.” He nods his head in the vague direction of Aziraphale behind him.

Behind him, Aziraphale wrings his hands. This is getting dangerously close to revealing too much.

“ _Ah,_ ” Anathema says. “ _We had outside help, as well.”_

“From who?”

_“From the last witch of England.”_

Crowley hasn’t a clue what that means, but thankfully, Aziraphale’s there.

“Impossible. Agnes Nutter passed away centuries ago,” he says.

_“Mistress Nutter had a talent for orchestrating events well beyond the time of her death. Truly gifted not only with foresight, but at planning down to minute detail.”_

“Mistress?” Aziraphale repeats.

“ _She bound us to serve her._ What did Agnes need six demons for? _”_

They can only assume that the abrupt question is from the true Anathema interrupting.

The demons answer, in a tone that implies it should’ve been obvious, _“To see the prophecies. You really thought one human could see the entire expanse of the future, all the way up to the end of times, with perfect clarity?”_

“Not sure I buy it,” Crowley says. “If you’re so good at seeing the future, why’d you let Anathema come to us? You woulda seen that you end up trapped in a holy circle.”

Aziraphale, meanwhile, is still stuck on the book. “Are you telling me the entire contents of The Nice and Accurate Prophecies of Agnes Nutter were actually _demonic_ prophecies ghostwritten by Nutter?”

 _“We'd say they were co-written,_ ” the demons correct. _“We don’t actually see the future. It was the witch who had the inner eye. Think of it this way: The Mistress had a static-y, garbled view of the future. She wants better service, so she hires us to set up six metaphysical signal towers across time and space.”_

Crowley scratches his jaw. “You’re the antenna, she has her hand on the dial?”

_“Something like that.”_

“What did it cost?”

 _“Human souls, of course. A mass sacrifice to us._ Do you mean—Taking out half the town when she burnt at the stake? She blew all those people up for an ulterior purpose? For a demonic purpose? _Yes. We’re surprised you don’t know this, Anathema. It’s all in the second volume.”_

Two silent tears spill down Anathema’s cheeks. Crowley can only wonder if they are tears of regret, betrayal, or anger. Perhaps all of the above.

“You said Agnes helped all of you possess me,” Anathema says, “But why would she do that to her own descendent?” Her own voice responds, “ _We would not accept the arrangement if she could not promise us safety after the day of Armageddon. She promised we could have you and that you would be ready for us._ Well, I wasn’t! _Yeah, no shit._ Who does Agnes think she is, making decisions about who or what could have my body?”

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange silent glances while Anathema and the demons talk amongst themselves.

The demons answer _, “Like Agnes’ own life, yours has been partially sacrificed in exchange for saving the world. We believe the Mistress’ logic was that you’d never reach this point if you weren’t already faithfully following her words without question. If you hadn’t done that, then you wouldn’t have stopped the end of the world and wouldn’t have a body left for us to possess anyway. Thus, you must have an unshaken belief in the importance of fulfilling Agnes Nutter’s plans. We are in the plan. This is your part in it.”_

Anathema looks to Crowley, eyes pleading for support. He can’t tell if the silent plea is coming from Anathema herself or from the demons.

“Incredible,” Aziraphale mumbles, and every head turns to him. “Agnes Nutter’s plan couldn’t account for free will. She wouldn’t have wasted time writing the second volume of prophecies if she could foresee that Anathema would choose to abandon it.”

“And she _did_ abandon it,” Crowley emphasizes. “So actually, the six of you _aren’t_ in Anathema’s plan anymore.”

 _“No! It is written!_ It isn’t written anywhere at all. I burned the pages. _We were promised—_ It wasn’t Agnes’ promise to make. She may have had power over you once, but she isn’t here anymore. I don’t blindly follow her words anymore, either.” The demons’ tone abruptly flips from demanding to begging, _“Anathema, please. We committed treason to serve her. We have nowhere else to go.”_ She turns to Crowley and asks, “Is that true?”

He nods. “It’s the worst offense. If it’s already been traced back to them, I bet they’re in the same boat we were. Heaven and hell want them obliterated.”

_“Please, tell us how you did it.”_

“Even if you knew the secret, you couldn’t pull it off unless you happen to have six angels up your sleeve. Why’d you ditch Hell to help the witch, anyway?”

The demons shrug Anathema’s shoulder. _“She was ballsy. She made us laugh. We were sick of everyone in hell being a dick all the time. It’s exhausting to_ be _a dick all the time just so you can sort of belong. Being summoned by the witch was a damn relief.”_

Aziraphale cuts in, “Why would you hurt Anathema’s friend, then?”

 _“He’s a witch hunter. We must scare him off.”_ Anathema seemingly interjects herself. “No, you don’t! He’d never hurt me, or anyone. _You don’t understand. You can’t trust a Pulsifer._ You’d better start understanding that I’m the one who decides when and how I need protecting, or there’s no chance in hell I’d consider keeping you.”

That seems to startle the demons into silence.

“Hold up, what about the plants, then? What was that for?” Crowley demands.

_“To prove… how demonic we are… to you? Look, being around other demons just creates pressure to be jerks. We’d rather be with witches.”_

“I see your point. I get it. Whatcha think, Anathema?”

“Listen, demons. These are the terms,” she says firmly, “If you want to stay with me, you sit quietly in the back seat and let me drive. You don’t cause trouble. You don’t decide a single thing for me. You don’t do anything without my permission. Got it? _But, what if—What about when we crave raw flesh? We can’t help it.”_ Anthema sighs. “Then, we will have steak tartare.”

There’s a somewhat long stretch of silence, during which Crowley imagines the demons are conferring with each other. Eventually, they say, _“Yes, Mistress. We accept your terms.”_

Anathema wipes her wet cheeks and gives Crowley a shaky smile. “I came here for an exorcism and I wound up getting a pact with six demons I didn’t even know existed.”

“I told you we can’t make guarantees. You ready to come out?”

She nods. Aziraphale stoops down to blow a candle. All five blow out with it. The circle loses its glow. Aziraphale and Crowley offer Anathema a hand. She takes both and is pulled to her feet.

Instead of letting go once she’s up, she keeps hold and pulls them into the hallway. “Let me… try something.”

Aziraphale and Crowley let themselves be steered, exchanging puzzled glances. Despite being happy about things seemingly working out, Crowley’s face falls into a frown when he sees the state of his plants again. He used to have the most verdant green you’ve ever seen lined up from wall-to-wall. Now, it’s all just sad and withered. He could heal them, but it just wouldn’t be the same.

Anathema reaches out and touches a dry plant. As if you’d taken a timelapse recording of its life cycle and reversed it, the plant goes from brown and limp to green and exuberant. A child-like wonder takes hold of her. With the afternoon sunlight shining through the window, she spreads both arms out and walks down the hall, brushing every plant with her finger tips, resurrecting them. Life surges back to the gallery.

She turns to Crowley and Aziraphale, beaming. “This is amazing.”

Crowley rubs the back of his neck, badly concealing his elation. “Yeah, it is. Thanks.”

Aziraphale makes no attempt to hide it, gaping at her with sparkling eyes. “Anathema, these are miracles.”

She comes back to their end of the hall and scoops up shards of the broken vase Crowley knocked over that morning. In her hands, the broken pieces come back together into its previous shape, plant and all.

She sets it on the accent table and gives the plant inside a little pat. “I believe for witches, it’s just called magic.”

In the end, the pancakes Aziraphale brought have grown cold. To his delight, Anathema suggests that she’d rather go out and try steak tartare. Over lunch, she suggests that they should take the train with her, that she’d feel safe if Crowley and Aziraphale were around while she adjusts to her new abilities, and that Jasmine Cottage has a guest room.

Way at the end, Aziraphale and Crowley discover that they quite like cottages. Anathema helps them find one.

**Author's Note:**

> a family can be a witch, an angel, and seven demons.


End file.
